Neha’s suicide was the jolt I needed. She had been my junior at Azim Premji University where we both did our Masters. In my final year, her colourful dupattas and cheerful smiles had always caught my eye. When I heard the reason—depression brought on by an abusive relationship—it brought back memories that I thought I had buried. Memories of continually walking on egg shells, not knowing what would trigger the husband’s anger. The agony of being rejected by the spouse, and the confusing slide towards zero self-esteem. The terrifying realisation that I could no longer trust the one I had married. The utter, utter sorrow when I was beaten up.

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